


A Single Moment Before Forever

by dulceflowercrowns



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Character Death, Existential Crisis, Fear of Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Not Really A Happy Ending, Soldiers, Supernatural Elements, yes Armie is the entity speaking to Timmy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 18:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulceflowercrowns/pseuds/dulceflowercrowns
Summary: Timmy is dying and a sympathetic entity guides him through the end.***this MAY be triggering for some, so be warned and be careful***





	A Single Moment Before Forever

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from but I cried writing it... it was a million times better the way I envisioned it so sorry if it sounds like crap now that it's actually written. apparently it's sad boy hours...
> 
> WARNING: Please be careful reading if you may be triggered. I can't exactly mark where it might start being tricky for some to read seeing as it's one big scene of that, but please PLEASE don't read if you think death, the fear of it, or coming to terms with it would in any way trigger you. (And always feel free to chat with me for support). xxx
> 
> ***
> 
> this isn't set at a particular time period in a particular place so let your imagination run wild honestly... okay here!

So this is what death felt like.

An agonizing minute that felt like hours stretched over ages.

Curled up in leaves and vines somewhere in the forest, staring up where branches made a network of foliage against the night sky, knowing dawn was too far off to have a hope of glimpsing sunlight one last time now that he'd lost this much blood. Timothée let out a rattled breath, tried not to whimper, and kept counting stars.

Every star was another second he was out there alone. Another moment his blood seeped into the damp earth cradling him, roots supporting his spine, moss caressing his cheek when his head lolled to the side, warm breeze like a furnace against the parts of him that had already gone chillingly numb.

He was supposed to hold on. Wait for help. His squad didn't believe in leaving anyone behind, no matter what the cost. Others had called them foolish, but they all thought their loyalty just made them stronger. They would come back for him.

That sense of comradery was what Timothée missed the most right now. He craved it more than the cracks on his lips said he needed water. More than the tears at the corner of his eyes suggested relief from the pain was beyond necessary.

He just wanted a familiar face, that peace of being in good company. Out in the trenches there was no treasure more valuable than that. Many nightmares had been fought off with banter from his fellow soldiers and so much more of the fighting and death and sickness and gruel for food was endurable because he had a buddy nearby to crack a joke with. To trade stories with. To share worries with.

They were small mercies, these friendships, especially when so many had been lost since the war started, but they were welcome.

They were coveted now.

He couldn't really remember how he'd gotten here. The attack was fuzzy enough; a resounding boom that shook birds from the trees and fear in their chests. Then the world was in flames, the air was crackling with gunfire and sharp calls, his ears were ringing and soldiers were falling down around him. He wanted to help, wanted to defend, protect, fight, run.

**Run.**

He shouldn't even be here.

How he'd gotten there, to that moment, was a blur. The usual story, but it didn't really make sense.

His family had no money. There was a war going on. He was young, able-bodied, high spirited. He was teaching school kids the piano one day and shouldering a gun the next. His uniform fit too big like a child in adult clothes, but war wasn't picky. Anyone would do.

Timothée couldn't remember if he'd told his family goodbye the day he left, if they wrote him or not since... he couldn't remember why he wasn't with them right now instead of holding a hand up to marvel at the living crimson running down his pale wrist like an oil slick in the dark. He couldn't quite place when he'd been hit, and he only knew where because of the odd year or so of rough medical training.

Each breath held a watery rattle, gurgling in his chest like the stream foaming at it's rocky banks a ways off. Anything more than a wisp of an inhale or exhale sent spots dancing across his vision and the torso of his uniform was soaked through. He'd gotten hit in the ribs, probably shattered one of the lower ones, and it had to be a splinter of bone that pierced his lungs because the bullet would've made quick work of him. No, the bullet was somewhere else, somewhere a little less vital, but Timothée couldn't bring himself to care enough to figure it out.

He wanted to stop hurting, but feared what it would imply if he did. Timothée heard of men begging for death to escape misery, but the thought was so unsatisfactory to the boy even as an uncalculated gasp made his eyes snap shut in silent protest. He couldn't even voice the scream that wanted to rip through him, could only keep painstakingly still until he'd learned to bare it aswell.

Timothée didn't want to die yet. He wanted more from life.

The thought that he didn't know what exactly that more was, and what he'd do with it if he had it, nearly choked him up more than the vice of doom curling around his throat.

Timothée's eyes fluttered open, jaw clenched, staring at a wildflower that swam and blurred around the edges with lucidity, inhaled tentatively and let the short bit of air out through pursed lips like Edmund had taught him when he'd had to get his shoulder set after a fall. Careful breathing in, short, gentle breath out through the mouth.

Repeat.

Breathe.

_Live._

The thought almost seemed displaced, far, laughably impossible. It was like he was only trying at this point to go down with a fight, and what good would that do when he had no one to boast to in the afterlife? Welcoming it wouldn't be so bad...

_Live._

Timothée blinked, slow and with lots of effort to open his eyes again, but he blinked with all the furrow-browed confusion of a bleary child and nearly forgot to breathe. He noted that it was even something for him to remember now in the first place.

_That's right. Live._

The thought was not his own. He didn't know where it was coming from, and Timothée would have a theatrical scan around the forest if that didn't require energy he didn't possess.

 _"Who was that?"_ was what he wanted to say, but _"Who?"_ was all he could manage to think, and nothing save for a light puff of air made it past his purpling lips.

He felt a dribble of liquid glaze his tongue, too metallic and wrong to be saliva. A flicker of panic seized his heart, but then as quickly as it came it was calmed.

It was almost over now, but he was calm. Timothée never imagined acceptance could work itself out so fast. It almost didn't feel like his doing. His head hurt to think about it.

_Don't you want to live?_

There it was again. A thought that wasn't his. Half aware that it might be a symptom of near death, but not really caring, Timothée fumbled sluggishly to answer his own mind. Even if just to have a companion.

 _"Yes..."_ he tried. _"But, what would I be living for?"_

For a second Timothée thought he was alone again, but then the detached thoughts came back. The response was clearer this time even as he felt increasingly foggy, cold, and numb.

_Family. Friends, maybe? Those are usually reasons people want to live._

_"I shouldn't be living for them. Just me."_

_So then do you want to die?_

Well, no, that wasn't it. Timothée didn't want to cease being he just... he just wanted to understand what he was living for in the first place. Because the answer should be himself, he should've been fighting the war and pushing on for himself, but now he couldn't look back and see it that way. All he could see was a boy following orders, going through the motions, hopping about until a bullet pinned him down in the forest like a bird to a wall alone for dead.

There was no time for feeling bitter, though. He wouldn't know how to anyway.

 _"I want to understand."_ he thought. Maybe it would be better if he understood.

Timothée realized he hadn't opened his eyes again after his last blink. He wasn't sure if his chest was still rising or not and the feel of the wild was faint around him.

Damp earth cradling his frame, soft mossy carresses against his cheek, warm breezes against chilly skin like the forest was sighing through his curls and down the back of his neck.

The voice in his head was more distinct and pronounced now. A man's voice. Deep, matter of fact, crisp but still lofty and kind.

_You don't want to understand. But you want comfort._

_"Yes,"_ Timothée was quick to agree.

Now that it was said, Timothée knew it was true. He didn't care what all of this was for, what he'd done in life and what he'd never get to do. He just wanted to be okay now. Here and now, he wanted to be unafraid and comforted. Maybe that's why he was hallucinating a voice. He'd wanted his friends to come back for him knowing full well there'd be nothing they could do.

Except Edmond would tell him how to breathe. Ronan would make teary-eyed jokes about finally courting Pauline now that Timothée couldn't stop her. It'd hurt to laugh, but they all would. Pierre would toss a blanket over him and sing him the French lullabys from their childhoods, but this time no one would call him a baby for relishing in their velvet melodies. They'd make him comfortable.

Maybe he was crying, Timothée couldn't tell anymore, but something bloomed in his chest the way a sob would. He couldn't really feel his body the same, but the impression of the soil and grass and leaves beneath him felt all the more like support, strength, a swaddle of intent. The softness against his cheeks seemed to move, seemed to curve around his jaw and flitter back and over again. The wind felt like a blanket, warm and comforting and safe and Timothée could just nestle into it...

His eyes snapped open, lashes heavy with moisture, and everything was blindingly bright. There was the sun, rising impossibly ahead of schedule, shining down in a honey tender glow between lush canopies, more beautiful than Timothée had ever seen it. He was choking up for how it made everything gold, marveling at it's sheer magnificence.

He thought he might be smiling; he knew he was crying now. This didn't hurt. It didn't feel lonely or cold or uncomfortable.

"Thank you," he managed to whisper aloud.

Somehow, Timothée knew there was someone to thank. That voice. He hoped it heard him. He hoped it knew how grateful he was for this gift.

_Dors maintenant, Timothée._

The boy sighed as his tired green eyes fluttered shut with finality.

So this is what death felt like.

A single moment before forever.

**Author's Note:**

> what Armie said at the end in French was "Sleep now, Timothée." :( hope I got the right translation!
> 
> yeah... idk. everytime I go to update one of my works I end up writing something else? this one hurt. feedback is welcome and highly appreciated. till next post xxx


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